The setting, too, was somewhat less tropical and exotic than he must be accustomed to, under similar circumstances, along the lines of red roses, gleaming mirrors and silk eiderdowns. The second-best hotel at Gullick did not cater for luxurious clients. Over the hard double bed the white counterpane was like a winding-sheet. The chest of drawers, with its small mirror on top, was mahogany, and so was the washstand. In the basin stood a can of hot water. One armchair was placed on a small yellowish hair rug in front of the fireplace, hidden by a painted glass screen; a shelf supported a few books lopping sideways in a dejected fashion. On the nondescript wall hung some prints of what might have been the Vatican and the Coliseum, if any one were sufficiently interested to inspect them. Ursula was in a vivid dancing mood; the small fidgety discomforts and disappointments of the evening, which might have daunted any girl in a lovelorn condition, only excited her spirit yet more. Her cheeks were scarlet, and her long-shaped lazy grey eyes shone with dark fires under her straight brows. She surveyed herself in the foggy glass, between two tall candle-flames. Her clothes were staid and unconspicuous as usual: a navy blue coat and skirt; a white silk shirt, open at the throat; a pliable grey suède hat of the Whittington shape. “Poor Louis!” Again she re-seated herself on the stiff chair, and folded her gloved hands in front of her; her feet, in small grey suède shoes, rested on her suitcase, with toes slightly turning in. She lowered her eyelids--“I’m glad he’s common and glib and bold; the sort of dapper little whelp who has made women suffer, and rather boasts of it....” Louis came in. “No chance of a train. We must stay here.” He cast round a comical look of distaste. Then, thrillingly: “_Ursula_....” She did not stir. Only her cheeks’ scarlet faded and faded till she was white as milk. Louis was disconcerted. After all, a man does not expect shyness after a woman has taken all the initiative, thrown herself at his head, one might say, in an ungallant translation of her behaviour. “I gave our names, downstairs, as Mr. and Mrs. Lewis. Please, will that do?” Her “please” was meekness itself. “Oh yes, as well as anything”--impatiently. Had she not recognized that the tiresome preliminaries and the mechanism were all over now, and that he had begun the emotional love-scene? “Let me take off your things and make you comfortable,” Louis suggested, and laid a seductive hand on her coat, giving it a gentle pull. But her whole frame resisted. “Or shall I unpack your suitcase?” Her feet pressed downwards. “I have never seen your hair down yet, Ursula; your beautiful honey-gold hair....” “Please, I would rather keep on my things”--in the same unaccountably meek voice which reminded Louis of cold moonlight, school-teachers, and lukewarm sago pudding--all good, and all by him abominated. “For how long?” mocking eyebrows raised.